


where all of you exists congruent

by psikeval



Series: cabbage: a love story [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally they are here, now, and none of the rest seems to matter at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where all of you exists congruent

**Author's Note:**

> "a short pwp" said a delusional woman, many months ago

 

Cullen is no stranger to being asked to communicate more openly than he’s accustomed to doing, certainly more than he has in the past, in his relationship with Krem. In fact, he’s occasionally startled by how often Krem checks on him, even if it’s only a brief pause to ask _good?_ or _okay?_ before they continue. (He apologized, once, for not reciprocating more, but Krem waved it off. “I’ll tell you if there’s anything wrong. I don’t mean it to sound condescending, but I think I’ve got a better idea what I like. What I’m comfortable with. You aren’t always certain, and you do that bottling up thing sometimes. So I want to make sure.”) 

This isn’t like any of the things they’ve talked about before. Even the discussion of what Cullen might enjoy hearing Krem say under certain circumstances, while certainly uncomfortable at the time, had quickly yielded positive, private results. Krem, when not concerned about overstepping any boundaries, takes great delight in being absolutely _filthy_.

But for this, they had to speak to Dagna together, and in the course of that conversation Cullen not only had to talk about what he personally enjoyed in very— _specific_ —terms, he was asked to propose _dimensions_. In clear, practical language, while Krem watched him as if he’d very much like to fuck Cullen right there on the undercroft floor, if that were an option.

“No problem. I made something like it for Sera and the In—” Dagna coughed. “Uh, her lover.”

“Who we all know nothing about,” said Krem, nodding agreeably.

“Yep! It just feels weird, discussing it, right? But Sera did say I could tell whoever I want. I think she’s hoping it’ll get around to Madame Vivienne.”

“So,” said Cullen, grateful for the room’s chill, which offset the heat of the forge as well as the all-consuming flush trying to climb up his neck. “When might we expect…”

“Give it a week! Maybe two, if I get any other orders. I’ll let you know!”

They ended up waiting closer to three weeks, since Cadash returned from Emprise du Lion with several fresh scars and fragments of an ancient blade, as well as news she’d broken the red templar’s hold in the Sahrnia quarries for good. While agents of the Inquisition did their best to hunt down Samson, Dagna was busy recreating the Sulevin Blade, for which Cullen can hardly fault her — Cadash always gets a certain gleam in her eye, when it comes to weapons she’s never seen before, and it generally seems unwise to stand in the way of it.

Her project for them, when Dagna was able to resume it, required a few moments’ further consultation to confirm minor details. This dedication to her craft was admirable, in theory. In practice it meant Cullen had to hear the words “I forgot your stance on width variation” in the middle of reading through reports, not to mention stammering through his response. For the rest of the day—more honestly, the rest of the week—concentration had been difficult to come by.

Finally they are here, now, and none of the rest seems to matter at all.

This time, Krem has firmly locked the door. He has also, with swift and single-minded determination, divested Cullen of every bit of clothing he’d been wearing, leaving it scattered over a table and, having lost some precision as things proceeded, on the floor.

“You realize this is the first time I’ve managed to get you out of all this,” he says, running his hands over Cullen, the muscles still heavy in his shoulders, the softer places along his sides and stomach.

“Is it?” He can’t honestly recall at the moment. It’s very difficult to string together thoughts when Krem is touching him.

“Another reason to hate the Inquisition,” says Krem solemnly, then scoops Cullen closer to kiss him.

The toy Dagna made prods into Cullen’s belly, then drags against his skin as it’s pressed upright between them. As nice as it is to be kissed by Krem, it’s hard not to look just now. The harness fits snugly around his hips, soft leather with a few buckles for fastening, and. 

It’s going to be inside him soon; Krem is going to fuck him with it. Cullen isn’t quite sure he recalls how to breathe.

Krem’s thumb is firmly rubbing circles on his neck. “Are you—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says vehemently, pre-empting the question.

It wasn’t anything they planned, but—Cullen drops to his knees and takes the toy in his mouth, as deep as he can; it’s the only way he can even begin to dull the edge of how much he _wants_. He’s dimly aware of Krem swearing as he works his tongue along the smooth thick length of it, valiantly trying to take it even further into his throat.

The material is warmer than he expected, relatively tasteless. He’s only really aware of its weight on his tongue and Krem, hands clenched into fists, staring down and helplessly rocking his hips.

“I wish I could feel it. Your mouth.” Cullen makes a low, disappointed sound, lets his eyes close and sucks as best he can, trying to swallow back the wetness in his mouth. He knows he’s being somewhat ridiculous, the awareness sharp enough to bring a flush to his cheeks and a prickle along the back of his neck, but he can’t bring himself to stop, especially when Krem runs a hand through his hair, just once, the touch heavy and possessive and infinitely comforting.

“Fuck,” says Krem, strangled. “Get on the bed, please, I need to fuck you.”

These are, perhaps, the only words that could persuade Cullen to stop. He stumbles to his feet, breathing raggedly, unsure when his cock became hard enough to leave a smear of precome on his thigh. When Krem tips him down onto the bed and kisses him, Cullen is pliant, light-headed with all that he wants, already undone. There’s no way he’ll be able to last.

Cullen lifts his hips cooperatively, till Krem can get one hand at the small of his back and the other wet with the vaguely herb-scented oil Iron Bull provided—yet another transaction Cullen never wants to think about again. Particularly when there are better things to hold his attention, like Krem’s fingertips rubbing behind his balls, into the cleft of his ass, and finally teasing at his entrance with hints of pressure.

This they’ve been practicing, most recently in Krem’s quarters yesterday, half-dressed between meetings, hands braced on the footboard of the bed. _I’m never gonna be over how much you love it,_ Krem told him then, in between placing wet, biting kisses along Cullen’s neck.

Perhaps it’s a reaction he’s aiming for now. If so, it will be impossible to disappoint him. Already Cullen can’t help shifting in Krem’s grip as best he can, despite lacking leverage to properly work Krem’s fingers inside him.

“Do you mean to have me beg?” he asks finally, trying not to sound like he has to struggle for every bit of air in his lungs.

“Depends,” Krem answers, clearly teasing. “Would it work?”

“Yes.” Then, when Krem breaches him properly, one warm calloused finger pressing in by torturous inches— “ _Yes._ Absolutely. I— I believe so.”

Cullen knows for a fact this could go more quickly, but Krem seems intent on drawing it out, watching Cullen stop breathing entirely while he’s teased with the slightest circling of a fingertip, gasping when he’s finally given more. Krem goes to put more oil on his fingers and pauses to trace a vein on the underside of Cullen’s cock. His hips jerk involuntarily, and he whimpers wretchedly in the back of his throat, trying to still himself. Trying not to chase the slightest touch.

Not that, in the end, it makes a great deal of difference. Krem has barely gotten two fingers in when Cullen comes, eyes screwed shut and unable to stop it, writhing as he spills across his skin and Krem’s fingertips stroke relentlessly inside him.

 _Damn it_. Cullen flinches even as Krem rubs at his cock, wringing out a few last spurts of come. His body manages to feel hot and cold all at once, pure physical relief and piercing humiliation.

“I— I apologize,” he mutters, stumbling over every syllable. “I didn’t intend to—”

“Hey,” says Krem with just a hint of sharpness. Still, the way he catches Cullen’s wrist with his free hand and rubs his thumb across the bone is infinitely gentle. “Stop that. What, you think I’ll be upset about how much you like this?”

He tries for understatement. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”

“You’re gonna have to trust me when I tell you how hot that was.” He very unfairly starts to pet that spot on Cullen’s ribs that never fails to make him melt; without thinking, he starts to relax, and breath comes easier. “D’you know how often I get to see you let yourself want something?”

The corner of Cullen’s mouth curves up. “Every time you’re near me.”

Krem gapes at him, speechless, for a moment; it’s honestly quite satisfying. “Please tell me you planned that.”

“It’s true,” says Cullen, with a small defensive frown.

“You’re a ridiculous man,” says Krem, and leans neatly over the mess on Cullen’s stomach to kiss him, lingering and slow. “Your real problem is whether I ever let you out of this bed.”

“Problem,” he repeats disbelievingly.

Krem laughs, low and pleased, and takes a moment to clean him up with what may or may not be one of their shirts, grabbed up from the floor. “Does that mean you’d like to keep going?”

“Please,” he says, and lets his head fall back when Krem gently nudges his thighs apart again. With the edge taken off it’s easier, really, to relax and settle comfortably on the bed while he’s stretched open further. Krem is more than capable of lifting Cullen’s hips one-handed, when he needs to, which is both convenient and absurdly attractive.

Finally Krem tugs him up and turns Cullen over onto his knees, handling him with that same complete lack of effort. He takes a few moments longer to double-check his preparations, his fingers careful and thorough while thrills of anticipation take over Cullen’s body. Now, now, _now._

When he finally feels the blunt end nudged between the spread cheeks of his ass, he can’t help the sound he makes, or how it breaks in his chest as Krem presses in further, steadily, barely hesitating until the entire length is seated inside him.

The size of it is—uncomfortable, at first; Cullen knew it would be, had asked for it, flushed scarlet and unable to look Dagna in the eye while Krem stared at him like he couldn’t believe his luck. It was worth it. He wants to feel this when it’s over.

“Fuck,” Krem breathes, filling him up, grinding his hips against Cullen’s ass. “You look amazing.”

It shifts the slightest bit deeper, wet with excess oil, and Cullen whines pushes back into the sensation.

“Is that all right?”

He can’t begin to recall how to speak, but he nods and is rewarded with several long, slow slides of the toy inside him. Krem’s hands are on his waist, guiding him back and forth in tandem with every thrust; that, and the brush of his thighs against Cullen’s, are really their only points of contact. There’s no reason at all for that to matter.

Apparently, it still does. His back feels unreasonably cold, fingers tense and fidgeting on the mattress. There’s nothing to hold his attention, and his thoughts begin to race unbidden, to what he could be doing wrong or how foolish he might look. Cullen winces.

Much as he’d rather not make a fool of himself, it seems it can’t be helped.

“Can you,” he reaches back to tug Krem’s arm, a painfully long moment of feeling hot all over and humiliated for asking _this_ , of all things, before Krem realizes what he wants and leans down, wrapping his arms tightly around Cullen, face tucked against his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, nestling somehow closer and rocking them just a little, the motion more soothing than anything else. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

For a long moment, Cullen allows himself to enjoy that—being held, and reassured, and cared for so willingly, as if it’s no imposition at all.

Krem tips them onto their sides, holds Cullen close and fucks him in slow, luxurious rolls of his hips, pets a hand over Cullen’s belly. The position’s a bit awkward, but Cullen is too grateful to care. It’s just that—he needs a moment, as much as he wants this, and Krem is entirely willing to provide. He scratches blunt fingertips over the hair on Cullen’s chest, and his belly, and lower still, never quite touching where he’s still too sensitive, just tracing shapeless patterns.

After a minute or two, Krem hums to himself once, a surprised and intrigued sort of sound, and the tempo of his movements changes, becomes something a bit more purposeful.

Cullen glances over his shoulder, or tries to, though it doesn’t do much good. “Do you need—?”

“No,” he says, hand splayed over Cullen’s stomach, “just—wait.”

His grip on Cullen tightens and Krem presses closer, circling his hips more firmly against the swell of his ass, just barely shifting the toy, over and over. “ _Wait, please_ ,” he breathes again, his voice low and rough and desperate, even though it doesn’t need to be, Cullen would do anything—Krem’s hand feels hot as a brand on his hip. “I want to see if I can—”

As it turns out, he can, just from rubbing against the base of the toy where it’s held in the harness. Krem makes a beautiful, broken gasp when he comes, mouth pressed against Cullen’s skin, and those quick relieved moans as he works himself through it; it seems horribly unjust to be deprived of seeing it.

“Do you mind if I’m on my back?”

“Not a bit,” says Krem, still breathing in quick hot bursts against Cullen’s shoulders. “Just—one second.” The second entails stretching and then wrapping himself around Cullen, warm bare skin and a lazy line of kisses down the first few bumps of Cullen’s spine. Krem rests his cheek against Cullen’s back and nestles in, the short hair along the side of his head just the slightest bit prickly against the skin.

“Right,” he then says briskly, as if he’s been talking strategy with Cullen rather than cuddling him. “Here.” He pulls out, laughing fondly at Cullen’s discontented sound, braces his weight with one arm and tips Cullen onto his back in the warm spot he’s left.

There’s hardly a moment’s pause before Krem is pushing the toy inside him again, its surface freshly slick, the sheer size and angle of it making Cullen’s thighs twitch. Krem rubs the shivery muscles until they calm, then carefully presses close and kisses Cullen’s forehead, like a reward for his patience.

“Hi,” he murmurs, with such fondness Cullen can’t help smiling back. “Yeah, this is better.”

He has often been of the opinion that Krem can’t possibly be more gorgeous—but then, he’s never seen Krem fuck him by candlelight. It was hardly a fair assessment before. Krem’s expression is intent, shadows sharpening the lines of his jaw and cheekbones, every muscle thrown into beautiful relief. Before long he leans down again, bracing his elbows on either side of Cullen, to kiss him.

Krem covers him, surrounds him, and he can tell, from the way Krem’s breath comes hard through his nose, the way he moans against Cullen’s tongue, that it’s better for him too, better leverage to bring himself off.

“It’s,” he tries, and then groans, shuddering on top of Cullen. “Oh, it’s all warm and— tingly. Are there runes for that? Are there sex runes? Fuck, I’m gonna come again.”

He’s louder this time, his hands fisted in the sheets on either side of Cullen, voice breaking as the movements of his hips turn erratic, and he all but melts onto Cullen when it’s done, face buried between Cullen’s neck and the pillow, like a warm and somewhat sweaty human blanket. It does, however, put Krem in an excellent position for Cullen to kiss his cheek.

“I don’t know,” he says, stroking Krem’s back.

“What,” he mumbles, insensate, and Cullen laughs softly and kisses him again.

“About runes. For—that.”

“Mm. Well. Dagna’s a genius.”

“Yes.” He nudges closer so he can kiss Krem’s mouth this time.

“Sorry. I swear I’m gonna keep fucking you. Any minute now.”

“There’s no rush.”

“ _No rush_ ,” he repeats incredulously, lifting his head up enough to look at Cullen like he’s being absurd. “Again, you realize this is the first time I’ve gotten you properly naked, and seeing you come like this will fulfill about a half-dozen fantasies of mine. But all right. No rush.”

“Half a dozen?” Cullen asks, with a certain degree of skepticism, and is kissed for his trouble, Krem’s tongue sliding lazily over his own.

“Mm. The list has grown recently.”

“Is that—” _so_ , he means to say, but Krem starts to fuck him again, pressing the toy deep with every push of his hips, and it becomes difficult to breathe, let alone form words.

“Yeah. Before, I didn’t realize how much you love this. If I’d known, it would’ve been harder to wait. Look at you.” And Cullen can’t, of course, but he can imagine the scene he makes, naked and sweating and pinned to the bed, spread out to be fucked.

It’s slower to build, since he’s already come, and that gives Krem plenty of time to work at finding a rhythm Cullen likes. Or several. “D’you mind being pinned,” he asks once, and Cullen shakes his head vehemently enough that Krem laughs while rearranging them, a fond smile lingering as he rests his weight on Cullen’s wrists. He finally, blessedly picks up the pace, leaving Cullen no interval to settle, just working him up until everything else melts completely away, and all he knows is that he still needs more.

“So,” Krem says in his ear, only the slightest bit breathless from the exertion. “Ready to come yet? I bet you are. I think I could bend you right over your desk, and fuck you like this, and you’d come for me.”

He nods, and hopes Krem understands this is what he needs, these words, that _voice_.

“Would you?” He fucks into Cullen harder, til every thrust wrenches a desperate sound from his throat. Krem’s mouth is open, warm against his cheek; he gently tugs at Cullen’s earlobe with his teeth. “Just beg to be fucked at midday, with the doors wide open?”

“Yes.” The sound is raw, pleading, barely a word. His cock twitches where it lies heavy and leaking on his belly. Krem reaches between them to stroke him, just once, and Cullen has to bite his lip to muffle a shout. He’s so _close_ , he wants so badly to come.

His hands are abruptly released. “Go ahead.”

When Cullen realizes what he means, he can’t touch himself quickly enough. He jerks at his cock, drags his palm too roughly over the head, and Krem—

“That’s it,” he says, lips brushing Cullen’s ear. “That’s it, beautiful.”

He’s once again struck by what he must look like, stuffed full and still fucking into his fist, a desperate, whimpering slut for it, and that’s what finally pushes him over the edge. He can’t _breathe_ when it hits, back arching off the bed, a gasp that fractures into mortifyingly loud cries, tapering off into low groans as Krem continues to fuck him. He feels nearly liquid by the end of it, boneless and trembling, eyes shut tight.

Krem wipes the mess of come from Cullen’s skin and settles on top of him, enough to draw another ragged gasp.

“No,” he breathes against Cullen’s cheek, warm and coaxing. “Come on. Open your eyes for me.”

He does, and in doing so, realizes some of the heat on his face had been from crying, warm damp tracks of tears, breath shuddering in his chest.

“There you are.” Krem nudges his nose against Cullen’s, kisses the corner of his mouth as Cullen tries to catch his breath. “Hey.”

He laughs raggedly, barely a sound, just his shoulders moving against the sheets. Krem wipes the tears from Cullen’s face, then nestles more comfortably on top of him, providing him a moment to let his breathing slow. He’s not sure he’s ever been so relaxed in his life.

Krem runs one thumb gently along Cullen’s jaw, then starts to shift back, away. “All right. Do you want me to—”

“Not yet,” he says, moving his uncooperative arms as quickly as he can to hold onto Krem, who looks…startled, to say the least. “Please. Not yet.”

There’s a slow, quiet pause, during which Krem opens his mouth, shuts it, and licks his lips.

“Do you need more?” he asks carefully, without a hint of judgement. Almost hopeful.

Cullen flushes anew, impossibly relieved to be spared the discomfort of asking—so relieved he doesn’t even bother to qualify his response. “Yes.”

“Well, I can’t just let you go before you’ve had enough. That’d be rude.”

“Maker forbid,” says Cullen dryly, though it’s the only words he can manage before Krem is slowly, gently fucking him again and he can’t remember how to speak at all.

“Good,” Krem tells him, rolling his hips, rewarding every whimper with a kiss. “Perfect.”

Once, the angle of the toy shifts inside him, its thickness rubbing in a different way, and Cullen can’t help writhing a bit, as if he means to escape—and perhaps he would want to, if he had any sense, but it feels incredible.

“Too much? Just say when.”

He nods in agreement, settling back down onto the sheets, muscles liquid, nerves buzzing with every languorous thrust inside him. _Just a moment longer_. A moment, or two, or however long it takes. For now, it feels too good for him to give it up. 

“Cullen?” murmurs Krem, his voice fond and a little amazed. “You haven’t said when.”

He shakes his head, vaguely perplexed. Why would he?

“Think you can get it up again?”

Cullen laughs at that, a soft and almost sleepy sound. “No.”

“Hm.” He pulls out just enough to slick the surface again, so it slips back into Cullen with barely the slightest resistance, only a wet, obscene sound in the quiet between them. It’s oddly soothing, the gentle strokes of it inside him, the tiny shiver of pleasure when it rubs that particular spot, never enough sensation to be overwhelming.

In the midst of it, Krem leans down and grabs something off the floor to wipe Cullen clean again as best he can. (That is almost _definitely_ his shirt, and he wouldn’t put it past Krem to choose it just to make him spend more time not wearing one.)

His cock, betraying all sense, is starting to swell against his thigh. Krem doesn’t comment, only kisses him slowly and resorts to short teasing motions of his hips, as if he can’t hear the small helpless moans it elicits, or hasn’t noticed Cullen’s cock twitching between them.

Krem lifts him by the hips and turns him over, strokes his thickening erection and chuckles next to Cullen’s ear, making his whole body feel hot again—he can’t help it, he wants this so _much_. He buries his face in the pillows and groans when Krem touches him, when Krem presses him back down on his belly and pins his hips into the sheets, rubbing his cock against the cloth.

“Knew you could do it.” He’s draped over Cullen, the thrill of being trapped and the comfort of being held all at once.

But the ache is beginning to outweigh the soft, buzzing pleasure, and he knows that if he ignores his limits Krem will be upset.

“When,” he admits regretfully, and Krem stops right away, gently withdraws. A buckle or two are unfastened, and then there’s a dull thud on the floor before he scoops Cullen up and back into his lap, running a warm steady palm over his trembling thighs.

For a while Krem only holds him like that, and Cullen tries to think of something that could calm his body down, but the whole room smells of sex, and Krem is wrapped around him and Maker help him, he still needs more. All he wants is to be fucked again, the limits of his body be hanged.

“Do you still want to come?”

He can’t. He can’t possibly. Cullen nods, and gasps when Krem traces the pads of his fingertips down the length of his cock. He holds up his hand for Cullen to lick, and wraps the cool slick skin of his palm around Cullen’s cock, gently working up and down. It _aches_ , overheated and swollen, every touch thrumming in his blood. He feels like he may very well burst into flame before he finds relief, as the spit rubs away from Krem’s hand, leaving warm skin, calloused, overwhelming, a thumb rubbing firmly at the head of his cock—

When he comes, it’s without sound, without mess, wrung entirely dry, only whining half-sobs wrenched from his throat as Krem strokes him through it. He can’t stop shaking in Krem’s arms, even when it’s over.

 

\--

 

The next few days are . . . fraught.

There aren’t many chances to spend time together, beyond that first, blissfully uneventful morning, most of which they spend hiding under blankets and kissing whatever part of each other happens to be readily available. By noon, reality has reasserted itself, along with all their various daily tasks and obligations. Cullen barely gets a chance to stumble through a goodbye before being swept up in the latest reports on Samson’s troops.

Which is damned inconvenient, because the last thing he wants to do is consider something beyond when Krem might next lay hands on him again.

A great deal of him feels sore, and he loves it, even more than he expected to. Cullen almost always finds himself dealing with aches and pains, but this — every twinge and throb of his muscles reminds him of what they did, of how much Krem wants him.

And he _does_ ; that much is made quite clear. More than once Krem catches him alone, in a corridor or corner, just to pin him to the nearest surface and kiss him, his grip on Cullen’s body heavy and promising, and Cullen welcomes it, welcomes Krem to every inch of him.

On the third day they manage to at least share a bed; or rather, Cullen stands nervously next to it, shifting his weight and needlessly uncertain of his welcome, until Krem groans some unintelligible complaint and drags him down bodily. He slings himself around Cullen as if claiming a particularly large pillow. It is almost obscenely easy to fall asleep.

The next morning, the Inquisitor calls her advisors and Morrigan into the war room. Or rather, Morrigan is meant to attend, but it seems her son had a bad dream or something of that nature; she sends a runner to tell them she’ll be along presently. For a while, it is only Cullen and Josephine grimly drinking tea, pretending with all their might that they enjoy nothing more than being fully dressed and awaiting orders after a few hours’ precious sleep.

Inquisitor Cadash enters deep in conversation with Leliana, and announces that the first of their forward scouts left Skyhold before the dawn.

They are going to the Arbor Wilds.

 

\--

 

Krem’s left arm and parts of his back have the odd, distinctive burns left by the red templar lieutenants, the twisting sick red ropes of energy they string between their men—it killed more than a few Inquisition soldiers, run straight through with it.

It hasn’t killed him, only ripped through his armor and taken with it layers of skin below. Still, his injuries are ugly, and too extensive for Stitches to have bandaged fully before Cullen can see.

“He’s not infected,” Stitches tells him, clear and sharp enough to break through even the pure panic that grips Cullen, when he sees the wounds. Relief follows so quickly on the heels of his fear that his knees refuse to hold his weight, dropping him on the ground next to Krem.

“Are you certain?” Cullen hears himself say, sternly, as if unaffected, but when Stitches says yes he’s too overwhelmed to do more than nod in reply.

Krem—does not look well. He’s far too pale, his skin too cold but still sweating, and the wounds may not have been enough to infect him but it’s clear they’re incredibly painful. He nearly loses consciousness once, settling more evenly onto his back, only to wrench himself back up with an anguished sob that rips at Cullen’s heart.

He runs a fever that first night. It’s low enough that Stitches only wants him watched, and they have plenty of volunteers for that—aside from the Chargers and Cullen, and Iron Bull keeping his eye on them all, Vivienne steps carefully around the fire to join them a few hours after sundown. Her robes remain immaculate, unheeded as she kneels on the ground next to Krem.

“We’ve received a bird from Skyhold,” she murmurs, placing fingertips against Krem’s neck, then at his temples. “The Inquisitor and the others arrived safely.”

“Thank you for the news,” says Cullen, who'd nearly forgotten his other reasons for disquiet, in the face of this.

Vivienne nods, more comfortable by a sickbed than he'd expected. “Has there been any change in his condition?”

“No,” he admits, well aware there’s no reason to worry as much as he is. “But I’m concerned.”

“You know, I can hear you,” Krem rasps, curling his fingers in Cullen’s. “Hey, ma’am.”

“Good evening, Cremisius. Don’t strain your voice.” It’s been a while since Krem last cut his hair, and she delicately brushes back a few strands that have stuck to his forehead. “I hear you did wonderful work against the red templars.”

“That’s us,” Krem mumbles, tugging down Cullen’s hand so it rests against his cheek. “Best you’ll find.”

They stay with him for an hour or two, as sunset fades to a cloudy blue-black night sky; the smoke of burned and burning templar camps lingers in the air. Vivienne draws ice to her hands and lets it melt against Krem’s overheated face and throat, summoning small blocks of it for him to eat whenever he asks. “You mustn’t fall to pieces over something so trivial, darling,” she tells him, and draws a weak thready laugh.

It’s close to midnight when she departs, with a murmured ‘ _take care of him, dear_ ’ to Cullen; by then Krem’s fever has gone down enough for him to sleep peacefully, one hand gone slack in Cullen’s while the injured arm and shoulder rest, bandaged, on his blanket.

He sleeps there on the ground next to Krem, then rises early enough to change into cleaner clothes and generally try to look like someone who spent the night peacefully in a tent. From the way Krem frowns at him upon waking, Cullen isn’t sure he’s succeeded. Luckily, there is the matter of their departure to be attended to, and it gives Cullen an excuse to meet with Josephine and sidestep the suspicion.

Celene's forces have already departed for one of the summer palaces or autumn fortresses or Maker knows what, leaving several long letters full of Orlesian platitudes referencing their Game which will, thankfully, not be his to decipher. Even Josephine looks too exhausted, in traveling clothes with her hair bundled into a knot, to give them more attention than being stuffed into a bag and left for later. She brightens, a little, when she sees Cullen approach, if only because the sooner they speak, the sooner they can start to head home.

Those of the Inquisitor’s inner circle who didn’t enter the temple alongside Cadash, and several groups of agents whose return to Skyhold is considered most vital, are departing immediately from the Arbor Wilds, leaving the bulk of their forces to regroup and return more slowly. The Iron Bull, Josephine mentions before Cullen can protest, has already agreed that Krem is well enough to be traveling.

“Course I am,” says Krem, when he hears the plan. Whatever Stitches gave him has got him back up on his feet, and this morning's bandaging is cleaner, less extensive, altogether less alarming than before. Besides, it's not as if Cullen has any means to stop him.

They share a tent again on the way back to Skyhold; it is, Cullen realizes several days in, the most time they’ve ever spent together. And it’s comfortable. Almost unnervingly so.

Almost overnight, they've developed habits.

In the morning, Krem drags him close and rests his face between Cullen’s shoulder blades, using his back to block out the light. Cullen makes tea, because he’s always enjoyed the ritual of it, and the soft, pleased look on Krem’s face is even better. In the evening, Krem sets up their tent while Cullen makes his rounds, checking in with Josephine, Iron Bull, Vivienne and the others. They very rarely stay out late among the campfires.

Krem doesn't seem to mind having him around. He puts up with Cullen’s odd and embarrassing compulsion to kiss every bit of him—the freckles on his shoulder, during breakfast; his neck, just along the edge of his hairline; the palm of his hand; an old jagged scar along his spine, while Cullen helps him change shirts—and offers a few pointed suggestions about where else he can put his mouth, if he likes.

( _Like_ is an understatement, considering how Cullen devotes the rest of their evening to eager compliance. He comes only when told to, with his face buried between Krem’s legs and a hand around his own cock, Krem’s fingers curled tightly in Cullen’s hair.)

Finally they reach the forest southwest of the Frostbacks. Their next, and final, camp will be made in the foothills, before they make the ascent to Skyhold through the mountain paths by morning. It’s during the day’s walk, through rustling woods and ground made soft by moss, that Krem sidles up to Cullen and makes an odd sort of announcement.

“There’s a hole in your roof,” he says, utterly without preamble.

“What?”

“Not a metaphor, I promise. There’s a giant, gaping hole in your roof. Above your bed. Where you sleep.”

“Actually, they did get around to repairing it.”

“Doesn’t really solve the fact that you have to climb a ladder.”

“It’s no trouble,” Cullen argues, well and truly confused by now. He’s never found fault with his quarters at Skyhold. They’re incredibly convenient, and prior to repairs he had a sturdy bucket to catch the worst of any rain that fell.

“Cullen,” says Krem, exasperated, as if Cullen is missing the point on purpose—or as if Krem is trying not to sound nervous. “I’m asking if you’d like to stay with me.”

With their reach expanded, and three keeps and countless camps to hold their numbers, few of their soldiers now reside in Skyhold. Almost all the Chargers now have quarters along the northwest wall.

“Wouldn’t be as close to where you work, but,” Krem clears his throat. “Turns out I miss you, when you’re not around. Thought it might be nice to have a… place in common.”

“Yes,” Cullen blurts out, almost before he’s finished speaking.

“Right. Good.” Krem nods to himself, quite confidently, for several moments before he glances sidelong at Cullen again. “Is that a ‘yes, it would be nice,’ or ‘yes’—”

“Yes, to all of it. I’d be delighted.”

“This is terrible,” he informs Cullen, squeezing his hand more securely. “I’m gonna miss the happy days of seducing tavern wenches. Coming home to you instead will be a trial.”

It’s a joke that might sting, under different circumstances, if Cullen could pay attention to any part of it besides— “Home?” he repeats, quietly, too full of hope to hide it.

“There I go again. It’s a sickness.”

He slings an arm around Cullen’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss, gentle at first but building into something too filthy for being in public; Cullen swears he can feel the slide of Krem’s tongue all the way to his toes. A few passing soldiers whistle cheerfully at them.

 _Do not say you love him in the middle of the woods_.

And to be fair, he doesn’t, but it’s a very near thing.

 

\--

 

Being back, of course, only makes them more busy instead of less; daily activities in Skyhold have not grown suddenly more conducive to romance, or even a semi-regular sex life, in their absence. With their troops still spread thin, and the threat of Corypheus looming ever closer, the Inquisitor could summon them to battle at any moment. Cullen is aware that time tends to be of the essence. To that end, he is currently half dressed, one arm braced on the chest of drawers, spreading himself open as best he can with the fingers of one hand.

He means to be done before Krem finishes training—to surprise him, and get things moving a little faster in whatever time they have. But it seems he's mistimed his efforts, because much sooner than he'd expected, the door to their quarters opens and Krem steps inside.

“Oh, _hello_ ,” he breathes, quickly locking the door behind him. He takes off his gloves and sheds armor piece by piece, all without taking his eyes off Cullen for a moment. It takes a great deal of willpower not to stop, now that he's being watched, but somehow Cullen manages it. He spreads his legs a little further and Krem makes a low, choked noise in his throat. “Am I allowed to participate?”

“On one condition,” Cullen warns, stern as he can be while in the midst of touching himself and only wearing an undershirt; the effect is most likely a little more breathless and pleading. “I’d like to leave my shirt intact. The last one couldn’t be salvaged.”

Krem laughs and doesn’t even try to deny it. “Well, you drive a hard bargain, but I think I can manage. Where do you want me?”

He bites his lip. “Would you sit?”

After tossing the rest of his clothes in a heap, then taking the toy and its harness from the box tucked under the bed, Krem does. He watches appreciatively while Cullen tries to finish his preparations, impatient shifting paired with clumsy twists of his fingers. "Throw me that?" he asks when Cullen is done with the oil. Krem catches the container one-handed and slicks up the toy, then raises an eyebrow.

“Will you be doing the honors, then?”

Cullen feels like his whole body is flushed hot, but he wants to. He _really_ wants to.

He sidles closer, encouraged by the way Krem's smile spreads, by Krem's hands on his sides, guiding him over until he's straddling Krem's lap. Cullen's the one who reaches back and adjusts the toy until its tip is pressing just barely inside him.

The look on Krem’s face, watching Cullen work himself onto it—somehow it feels even thicker than he remembered, and he can’t _help_ the whine in his throat, drawn out when Krem scratches gently down his sides with short, blunt fingernails. Then he’s finally settled on Krem’s lap and he drops his head on Krem’s shoulder, taking breath in shaky gasps.

“Oh.”

“Miss me?”

For a moment he can only exhale slowly against Krem's neck. "Yes."

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs, and places a kiss just under Cullen’s ear.

He braces his knees on the bed and—well, he tries. The first time it slips out of him, and he flushes, flustered, until he can situate himself properly to take it again, sliding down its length with a long, low groan. When Krem coaxes him up again he’s careful, working himself on the toy in slow rocking motions that stroke inside him perfectly

Krem’s hands settle on his hips, thumbs steadily circling over the skin

“That’s it. Fuck, you make the sweetest little noises.”

He makes a few more, when Krem, can barely keep going with the way his thighs are shuddering beneath him.

“Mind if I take over?”

He doesn't mind at all; this is, in fact, considerably more tiring than he'd been expecting, insofar as he's never actually tried it before.

Krem gets a grip under Cullen’s thighs and _lifts_ him up and down, steadily, as if he weighs nothing at all. There’s a swooping in Cullen’s gut, the vertigo of weightlessness, and he grabs at Krem’s shoulders, clutching where before he’d only held for balance.

“We should do this more often,” says Krem, carefully casual, only the slightest hitch in his breath each time he lifts Cullen up. “I knew I’d like it, but I didn’t realize how much you need it.”

 _Neither did I_ , Cullen would say, if he had enough air in his lungs for it.

When he comes, working himself at a frantic, unsteady pace on Krem’s lap, it makes a mess on both of them, which Cullen only succeeds in smearing further—rubbing against the warm skin and solid muscle of Krem’s stomach is too much to resist. He rests for a moment, spent and still so deliciously full, before it occurs to him to murmur his apologies.

“Shut up,” Krem tells him, with such open affection Cullen is doubly glad to be kissed, and spared the chance to respond in kind. He stands while still holding Cullen, carefully pulling out as they rise, all without seeming to exert any effort whatsoever.

“Your _arms_ ,” Cullen mumbles, and Krem tries to stop grinning enough to kiss him.

“Yeah, I think you might’ve mentioned that.”

They take turns cleaning each other with soft cloths soaked in water from the basin, and a bit too much is dripped on the floor but the job gets done eventually. After placing a kiss on Cullen's collarbone, Krem tugs him back to the bed and they collapse, slightly tangled together; he takes one of Cullen’s hands in his own and starts absently massaging it, easing away the tension with his fingertips and thumbs.

“I—,” he begins, but it’s too much to feel, let alone to express; his voice breaks, and all he can say is “ _Cremisius_ ,” helplessly tender, in place of what he means.

“Thought we decided,” he says, voice wavering, “never again.”

Cullen manages only a suspiciously watery laugh in reply, blinking down at their joined hands.

“Fine,” Krem concedes before he can even try to answer. “Maybe on special occasions.”

He brushes back a few unruly curls of Cullen’s hair, then reaches down and drags the blankets up over them before the day’s chill can make itself known. In the rearranging, Krem manages to settle half on top of Cullen, nuzzling lazily at his poorly-shaven jaw, Cullen finds he absolutely cannot stop smiling for the life of him.

“Cremisius.”

Krem makes a loud and unconvincingly aggravated noise, half a grin still breaking through. “Oh, fuck. You’ve made me like it. There’ll be no getting rid of me now.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen murmurs, without worrying how it might sound, or if it’s too soon, or if he ought to hold it back. Krem just smiles and kisses his chin, his cheek, the hollow of his throat, before tugging Cullen close and holding on. The world doesn’t come to an end, from that small scrap of honesty.

Perhaps he’ll try it more often.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Where All of You Exists Congruent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115999) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




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